by L V Chase
“What was his name?” Aurora asks.
“Damian White,” I say.
I cover my face with my hands. I don’t want to be sad about this. It’s dumb. There’s nothing I can do about it. Aurora moves close to me, leaning against me as she gives me a hug.
“It’s okay, sweetie,” she soothes.
Layla, Chelsea, Krystal, and Ava all rush over to my side. Their hands brush against my arms and knee as they murmur soft reassurances.
“I’m just really tired,” I say. “And maybe a teeny, tiny bit drunk.”
“Of course,” Aurora says. “It’s getting late. We should head to bed. You can sleep right here, Cinnamon. I’m not sure we should try to move you anywhere.”
“Solid choice,” I mutter, leaning down to rest my head on the armrest.
I close my eyes for a few minutes and when I open them again, the grandfather clock tells me an hour has passed. It’s getting cold, so I pull the blanket off from the back of the couch. It’s imprinted with the image of some bare-chested celebrity. His legs end up near my throat, but I’m too drunk to care.
I can almost see why my mother threw so much away for alcohol. It’s nice to shut off the anxious parts of my brain and live in a world where the only thing is the present.
I settle deeper into the couch. I let unconsciousness slip over me with nothing on my mind but how nice it would be to have someone else next to me. Maybe I’d even settle for a Grayson. I feel the blanket slide off me, but I don’t have the energy to grab it.
Grayson’s voice slips into my head. “Trust you? Are you fucking stupid?”
“You don’t even know what I’ve found,” Aurora’s voice argues.
“Who gives a shit?” he snaps back. “I didn’t ask you to do jack shit.”
I peek between my eyelashes. In the dark room, I don’t see anything except a faint glow from the kitchen.
A large dark shadow appears in the door frame. It gets larger as it moves closer. It’s him. Grayson. I close my eyes, trying to slow my breathing. His footsteps land lightly as he approaches the couch. I struggle to keep my eyes closed. When his hands touch my arm, it’s barely noticeable. His hand wraps around my wrist, his fingertips pressing down near the edge.
Is he checking my pulse? It’s beating too fast. He’ll realize I’m not asleep. I wait for the cold remark or the twinge of pain to let me know that he’s seen through my ruse.
But after several seconds, he carefully puts my arm back down. A flash of air blows over me, and I feel the blanket settle over me again.
The fuck?
It’s such a small gesture, but my mother’s never been the nurturing type, not even when I was sick. The only person who’d do something like that was Damian. But Grayson? No fucking way. I must be dreaming, or still drunk out of my mind.
I open my eyes. Grayson is gone and the light in the kitchen is off.
Maybe liquor makes dreams more vivid.
When I wake up, the blanket’s gone and a blender is clattering. Loudly.
I slowly sit up and instantly regret doing so. It’s like my brain has turned into the ocean, sloshing left and right with every small movement I make. I set my feet on the floor, standing up slowly. Empty glasses are scattered around the living room, and I have to step around a few of them to stagger into the kitchen.
Aurora is facing away from me as she pours a pink liquid out of her blender into a purple cup. The microwave clock says it’s almost eleven in the morning.
“Aren’t you hungover?” I ask, leaning against the counter.
She jolts in surprise, spinning around to look at me. “No,” she says. Her posture stiffens. “I don’t get hungover. I know my alcohol tolerance.”
“Can I ask you something?”
“If you have to,” she says, sipping from the glass.
“Was Grayson here last night?”
She raises an eyebrow, slowly lowering the cup. “No. Of course not. He’d never go to one of these things. He calls them whore conventions.”
“Oh? What does he call it when he and his friends get together? Pervert Party?”
She doesn’t smile. She takes another gulp of her smoothie.
“I’m going to shower,” she says. “You should probably head home, too. You slept in your day clothes.”
I look down at my rumpled clothes. “Yeah, it’s a bold fashion statement. I call it Sex on the Beach: the act or the drink?”
She forces a smile but walks past me without saying another word. I hear her footsteps as she jogs up the stairs. I head back into the living room. It’s still cold, but there’s also a new, unfamiliar chill.
If this house is haunted, it’s by Grayson’s ghost, and even his ghost must hate me.
15
Grayson
It's Sunday, and I'm in the waiting area outside Dad's downtown office again, with its glass walls and sterile tile floor. I'm sitting on the leather sofa, drumming my fingers lightly on the dark tan surface. Eric called a few minutes ago, but when I told him that the secretary wasn’t here and that interns don’t work weekends, he hung up, disappointed.
It's better that way. Dad wants me here to talk about my project, the one where I'm supposed to deliver girls to his big-time business partners. The one where I’m supposed to be getting Cin ready. I can't think straight half the time when Cin's involved, but Cin's my business, my project. I'm distracted enough when it comes to her without help from Eric's clowning around.
News is a twenty-four-seven business, and Dad's usually working all weekend if he's not at some event rubbing shoulders with the VIPs. Today, Dad had to run off and take care of another deal. He's left me here to wait for this Robert Brady. He’s a big-timer, an assistant district attorney or something. Dad didn't explain the details of the business side, something about network regulations. My job's simple. Keep Brady happy. Give him anything and everything he wants.
There's a light tap on the door to the waiting area. Then, a stubbled middle-age face in metal-frame glasses pokes his head into the room.
"Mr. Voss?" He blinks, clearly expecting Dad instead.
"Yeah, that's me.” I say. "Grayson Voss.”
A tall, thick figure bulldozes past Dad's employee and into the waiting room. He has a bulldog's face—round, big nose, fat lips with a shaggy black mustache and beard. The pink shirt he's wearing stretches tight across both his chest and belly.
I stand to greet him.
"You're Grayson?" he asks. "Lawrence said you'd be here. I'm Robert." He sticks out a meaty hand.
I grab his hand. He squeezes hard, the fucking prick. I smile as I squeeze right back with an iron grip. "My father appreciates your dropping by."
Brady grins and pumps my hand twice before letting go.
I glance at the employee still standing in the doorway. "Go. I’ve got this." I lead Brady into Dad's empty office, taking a seat behind his empty black desk. It's my first time sitting here.
Brady sits opposite me, his large frame looking out of place in the small black chair. He shifts one way, then the other, trying to find a comfortable position. I know Dad set things up with that chair to make the other person look weaker, but just the way Brady is fidgeting irritates me. It gives me the impression that he's fragile, thin-skinned.
"So," Brady says after settling down. "Lawrence tells me you have someone special for me to meet."
"Yes." I pull out an envelope from my back pocket and slide it over to him. Inside are pictures of Cin from her scholarship interview.
Brady eagerly snatches the envelope and opens it to pull out the photos. His face lights up with an ugly leer.
"Oh, I like this." He licks his lips. "A body like that. Mm. I can already imagine this little cunt bouncing on my cock."
Brady glances up at me, as if checking to see that I'm bothered by what he just said. I give him a bored smile. He thinks I'm encouraging him, because he shuffles through the photos again.
"This one, this one's special. I'm going to treat her
special, too. You think she'll cry or scream when I take her raw in her ass?"
He grins at me, showing his yellow teeth. I fight the sudden urge to reach out and strangle the motherfucker. I try to keep my face neutral, but my annoyance must be seeping out, because Brady grunts and sits back, changing his tone.
"She's a fighter? A loud one?" he asks.
I shrug. "You could say that."
"Good. I like my girls aggressive." Brady's shifted to a lecturing voice like he's explaining how a fucking light bulb works. "I'm helping them. Wild girls like that act out because they think it's the only way to get what they want. Usually because of a bad history, but I fix them. Turn them into ladies."
He's full of shit. He's the type that likes to break in girls like someone would break in a horse. I wouldn't have cared what he does in his spare time, but...
Cin. I know right then, that there's no way in hell I'm handing Cin over to this fat fucker. Not because I give a damn about her. I can still use her for Dad's project, tame her, toy with her, get her ready, but it'll be for someone else. Someone who's not a complete loser like this dipshit Brady.
He's waiting for me to say something, so I smile. "Make them scream, make them bleed. That's the only way I like them."
Brady laughs loudly. Then, reaches across the table to shake my hand again. "Oh, you know it, son."
I'm not his fucking son. I'm tempted to use my full strength and make him whimper like the pussy he is, but I hold back. We exchange bullshit for a few more minutes. Then, he throws the photos back onto Dad's desk, gets up, and leaves.
I sit in Dad's chair for five minutes, alternating between thinking about Brady's face and Cin's. I want to pummel one and…I'm not sure about the other. I pick up one of her photos. She's in a white top, her back arched, arms on her sides, looking like a damn angel. Except I know that she's not one.
I collect the photos and put them back into the envelope. I call Dad. He picks up after the second ring.
"What is it?" Dad asks.
"I met Brady," I reply.
"I know. He sent me a rather enthusiastic message a minute ago."
There's a pause. "I don't think she'll work for him," I say.
"Explain."
I take a deep breath. "I know her, Cin. She won't be able to satisfy him. She's not a typical—"
"If Brady think he wants her, make it happen. That's all you need to worry about. Don't complicate things. I expect you to get this done properly."
He hangs up.
16
Cin
I walk into the dining hall for lunch. The low hum of conversations seems lighter, happier than the usual rumble of a school day. It probably has something to do with the fact that we won’t be seeing any teachers today. It’s the kind of group joy that spreads easily.
But as I stop at one of the food stations, a heavy silence spreads throughout the dining hall. Just like that, the joy shrivels up into harsh whispers.
I glance over my shoulder. Strangers who had been staring drop their eyes down to their food. I fight back a grimace, focusing on my food. I grab a yogurt and granola, pay for it, and walk over to Aurora’s table. She’s with her friends, sitting on top of the table with her feet on both of the remaining chairs. She and her friends watch me standing in front of them, but nobody says anything to me.
“Hey,” I say. “So, I’m not good at this subtle shit. Did I do something to piss one of you off? I can’t fix a problem if I don’t know it exists.”
“We’re just trying to figure out what kind of person you are,” Aurora says, tapping her phone against her knee. “Personally, I understand you were drunk, and you might have said things you don’t mean. But some of my girls aren’t as sympathetic. And neither are the others.”
“What are you talking about?”
She taps on her phone and spins it around, showing me the screen. It takes me a second to figure out what she’s showing. It’s one of those confession pages on Social Summit, the app everyone uses here. It’s showing a post about…me. Someone anonymously posted a video of me from the party last night.
“Who uploaded this?” I ask.
Aurora shrugs. “It’s anonymous,” she says. “And that’s not the only clip. Cinnamon, you made fun of the other scholarship girls. You blamed your mother for your problems. That doesn’t line up with Roman Academy’s image.”
She takes her phone back, turning her full attention to it.
My fist curls up. I’ve encountered enough snakes in the grass to know when to get out the lawnmower. I should have realized that she’s no different, but I was blinded by all the blatant malice around me. I missed the poison right in front.
I walk away from her. I set my food down on the window ledge and pull out my phone. I find the video clips—six of them—from all throughout the party. It shows me talking about Damian. It shows me criticizing the scholarship girls. It shows me stumbling drunk. It shows me, without context, taking a door off by the hinges.
I look like an insane, bitter, overemotional wreck.
Dozens of comments extend underneath them.
Ryan Moreno: she’s so fucking clingy.
Alicia Jackman: lol she doesn’t get that nick guy is so over her.
Mackenzie Keiffer: And then she blames it all on her mother. Maybe if she takes responsibility for her actions, she might grow up to become a contributing member of society.
Cameron Green: Ikr? She’s just another drunk scholarship kid who will inevitably fail because she can’t take responsibility for her own flaws. Pathetic.
Something smacks the back of my head. I turn around, seeing a half-eaten banana near my feet.
“Hey, Blitzed,” Terry, the boy I’d punched during orientation, calls out. “I didn’t know white trash even liked vodka. Don’t you guys usually stick to heroin?”
“No, we stick to beating pieces of shit,” I say. “Why? Are you available for the next four minutes?”
He shrinks down into his chair. A group of girls walks past him, heading toward me. It’s the DDDD girls. Demi walks straight up to me.
“Yeah,” Demi points at me. “This, girls, is what we call a SAB. A Snobby Arrogant Bitch.”
“Wouldn’t SAD work better as an acronym?” I ask, picking my food up off the window ledge. “You could just use the word dumbass instead of bitch.”
She gapes at me. After several seconds of silence, she closes her mouth and flips her hair.
“For the record,” she says. “Just because we find ambitious men attractive doesn’t mean we’re gold diggers. It just means we’re not willing to settle for losers. Sorry if that’s your type, but birds of a feather, right?”
“You’re sad,” I say. “I mean, SAB. Excuse me, I need to find a loser to settle with.”
I quickly start moving towards the exit. I try to keep my face stoic, but my jaw is clenched, and my headache’s evolved from feeling like a heavy ocean to a pressurized tank about to explode.
Someone pull on my backpack as I pass by, but I yank it out of his grasp. Once I’m outside, I notice more people staring at me. Their eyes are full of disgust and scorn.
I deserve it. I shouldn’t have said those things about the DDDD girls, and I definitely shouldn’t have been idiotic enough to do it out loud in front of a bunch of girls I barely knew. I shouldn’t have drunk so much. I shouldn’t have trusted anybody.
I should have learned all of these lessons a long time ago. I thought I did.
I stop at the weeping willow I had been painting over the last few days. The piece for the art competition has slowly been coming along, but it’s not good enough to win. I’ll commit fully to it now. I’ll fix all of the small mistakes in it. I’ll make something of that half-finished work. And of myself.
I sit down, pulling out my canvas and my paints from my backpack. I try to not think about anything. I don’t have time to start over or anything.
The sun starts to set, which distorts everything I’m painting. The shadows chang
e. The colors change. The reflections become murkier or disappear completely.
But the painting’s finally coming together, and that makes the ache in my hand and back worth it.
A new shadow appears behind me. I turn to see Aurora with her friends. She smiles at me, taking several steps forward.
“Hey, Cinnamon,” Aurora croons, cradling her hands against her chest. “How are you? Where’ve you been all today?”
“Hey, Aurora,” I say. “I’ve been here, waiting for you.”
“Really?” she asks. “That’s so—"
“Yeah, I was thinking I needed to paint something basic and uninspired, and here you are.”
“Excuse me?” she asks, her face crinkling up. “Why are you being a bitch? I’ve been defending you all day.”
“I don’t believe that for a second,” I say, standing up. “I should’ve known from the beginning that you’d be as pathetic as the rest of your family.”
“I’m not pathetic,” she says, her voice becoming sharper. “Talking about pathetic, I wasn’t the one nearly ready to cry last night or getting drunk off my ass.”
“You gave me all those drinks.”
“You’re going to blame me?” she sneers, changing her face from angelic to the face of someone possessed. “So typical. So weak.”
Her arm lurches forward. I dodge, but she’s not aiming for me. She snatches my canvas, taking several steps back towards her friends as I try to take it back.
“Give it to me,” I demand, holding out my hands. “I’ve been working on that for days.”
“Really?” she says, gazing down at it. “My three-year-old cousin could do better.”
“Great. Start paying her to do your make up,” I say. “Just give me back my painting.”
“Nah,” she says. “What would happen if I ran my hand down this? How many of the colors would blend?”